


more teeth

by doqteeth



Category: Jurassic Park - All Media Types, Jurassic World Trilogy (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Chris Pratt - Freeform, Death, Dinosaurs, F/M, Gore, Pre-Jurassic World, Romance, fun times, people get eaten and its graphic sorry, shitty romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 04:37:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18175943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doqteeth/pseuds/doqteeth
Summary: you are a world renowned expert on predators such as lions, hyenas, wolves and even a few reptiles here and there. one day, after a long week of studying lion hunting habits, a strange man approaches you with a manic glint in his eye and a glossy business card. what you don't know is that you'll be in charge of training something otherworldly, something hellish, something unreal. and there'll be a cute guy there, too.





	more teeth

Sweat poured down your neck as you leaned out of the jeep, harsh alkaline dust settling in your cracked lips and dry mouth. The binoculars were going to leave a harsh red rim around your eye sockets from how hard you were pressing them against your face, but you didn’t care. This was worth it.

 

You studied predators. More specifically, predators of the African savannah. You’d been endlessly fascinated with them since a young age, and were now pioneering new fields of research about these complex beasts. The endless, deep-set feud between lions and hyenas was apparent. Lions were assholes--as soon as hyenas took down some poor hoofed beast, lions would show up out of nowhere, a swagger in their step. They knew what they were doing, snarling and swiping at the hyenas and leaving them hungry for the night.

 

Not exactly kings of the jungle.

 

You’d also done a long stint up in Yellowstone, studying the wolf population there extensively. Their pack behaviors, hunting methods, parenting manners; they were also incredibly interesting animals that intrigued you to no extent.

 

Now, your field of work always came with its dangers. Some from humans, most from animals. You were a woman, doing hard outdoorsy work and taking charge of your own life. Men, especially corporate men, didn’t seem to like it, and would often share unwanted opinions about your profession or body without invitation. It didn’t bother you as much as it had when you had first stepped foot into a wildlife preserve, but it still itched under your skin when a man called you silly or that you needed to be a little more modest. 

 

And of course there were the animals. The wolves didn’t mind you; they were somewhat used to humans and kept out of your way. You studied them with little issue, but you had a small collection of fine teeth imprints on your arms and hands from nippy little pups exploring with their mouths. One scar high up on your shoulder was from a testy male wolf, full of hormones and angst and ready to take it out on anyone too close. You, in fact,  _ were  _ the someone too close, and it earned you a trip to the hospital and a sling followed by a bulky bandage for a bit.

 

No, it was the lions and hyenas (affectionately dubbed ‘yeens’) and the buffalo that earned you more than your fair share of scars and a few blood transfusions. Lions were the main perpetrator; they defended their territory with a vengeance and were all too happy to let you know that you were encroaching. Hyena attacks were rare. Everyone knew that you didn’t travel alone in yeen country. Buffalo were nasty-tempered and charge-happy with deadly horns and the ability to trample you flat. You steered well clear of African buffalo.

 

You were, in short, just about an expert on multiple kinds of predators. A hard profession with little payout, but you loved it all the same.

 

You stared hard out at the trampled, bent grass, trying vainly to see any sign of the lionesses with their kill. You saw them drag it down, but you’d looked away for a second and lost it. 

 

Your driver, a nondescript man by the name of Ed Davis, banged the side of the jeep with his hand twice. “Boss, we leaving?” he called back to you, taking a swig of his water jug.

 

That jolted you out of your scrutiny. “Yeah, yeah, just… cannot find this kill. Looked away for a split-second and it’s like they just vanished into the grass. Damn cats.”

 

He chuckled and mumbled something to himself. You leaned back, unsticking the binoculars from your face and rubbing at the chafed marks around your eyes. You settled back in the seat, shutting the sunroof of the car and taking a few chugs out of your own water jug as well. Your flight back to Cornell was scheduled for just about midnight tonight. Ed was coming, but splitting off at your layover in New York City. 

 

“Got some family stuff. You know,” he said vaguely, waving his hand. 

 

You bobbed your head in a nod. You knew. That was one of the reasons you and Ed worked well together. You two never needed small talk; silences were comfortable, no matter how long they stretched. The jeep rumbled steadily over the barely-visible dirt road. The road, which was little more than tire tracks over dirt, soon widened into a well used street as you pulled out of the preserve and started your drive to the hotel, where you would check out and then make the trip to the airport. A perfectly stable, reasonable plan. 

 

And then chaos theory fucked it all up.

 

You and Ed were at the desk of the hotel. You were handling the business of paying; you were better with people anyway. Conversing lightly with the desk clerk, you paid for your stay and wished her well, turning to head out the door. Ed was already loading suitcases and bags into the airport shuttle. You were on the doorstep when a hand caught your arm.

 

You shoved your elbow back immediately, feeling it strike something  _ solid  _ and whirled to face your assailant. It was a man. Heavyset, goatee, neatly combed but receding salt and pepper hair. He wore slacks and a buttonup with loafers--out of place here. He wheezed, clutched his solar plexus and raised his hands in surrender.

 

“Sorry, sorry, my fault,” he coughed out. When he regained his breath he stood up, a forced corporate smile stretching out his face, peeling his lips over his teeth. “Ms. Grant, yeah? Vic Hoskins. Hoskins or Vic is fine, I don’t care. Listen, I heard you did some real groundbreaking work with wolves and lions and the like over the years?”

 

You eyed him suspiciously, an austere gaze sweeping over him again. “Yes, why?” you say shortly, taking a step back and feeling yourself brush the doorframe.

 

He chuckles; it’s dry. “Listen, I’m with InGen, and they are  _ real  _ interested in you and your work. In fact, they want to offer you a position at the new and improved Jurassic World.”

 

At the mention of InGen, you freeze. You and InGen go way back. And it wasn’t even your fault. Your father, Alan Grant, had taken a bribe of sorts to go visit a dinosaur preserve for a weekend. The whole thing was run by InGen, and the dinosaurs escaped, killed people, and generally messed the whole thing up. Alan Grant figured that he would never go back there again. And he didn’t. And he was also adamant about keeping you away from InGen’s clutches, saying that they were nothing more than a “greedy corporation” and that you needed to give them a wide berth.

 

You did. Up until now, when they decided to confront you headon.

 

“What position?” you ask, your voice flat. You’re especially careful not to show any intrigue; you know immediately that this Hoskins is a salesman, and he’ll latch onto any sign of interest.

 

“It’s private; I’m under an ND,” he says, making it sound as though he wishes he wasn’t.

 

“Nondisclosure agreement, huh? Must be some fun corporate sneaking you’re doing, Mr. Hoskins,” you say coldly. You’re making your exit now. Ed is coming back from the car, wondering what the hell was taking you so long.

 

He opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off. “I have to go. Have a nice day,” you say, turning around and leaving the hotel, your suitcase rattling behind you. You almost collide with Ed, who’s coming in. He looks at you, adorned in aviator sunglasses and smoking a cigarette, with a half-grin.

 

“Was wonderin’ where you went, boss. What held you so long?” he asks as he leans against the car. You’re loading your stuff into the trunk, caring little about his prodding questions.

 

“Nothing. Some guy recognized me,” you mumble around the pair of sunglasses you’re clutching between your teeth. “Can you put that out? I hate when you smoke in the car.”

 

He grumbles halfheartedly and stomps out the cigarette, climbing into the front seat and waiting for you. You rifle through your pockets to see if there’s anything else you’d want to put in a suitcase--and feel a piece of paper. Well, cardstock paper, hard and glossy, the size of a credit card. Interest piqued, you reach in and pull it out, inspecting it immediately. Your jaw sets and ticks.

 

Written on the card in dark blocky font is  **VIC HOSKINS, INGEN CORPORATION** . Listed beneath is a phone number. A pale green fern graphic takes up the rest of the space on the business card.

 

“That slippery bastard,” you snarl, to nobody in particular.

 

Ed lays on the horn for a solid second or two. You startle and jam the card in your pocket, rushing to the front of the car.


End file.
